The Visitor
by 80sarcades
Summary: No one is ever truly alone on Christmas Day...


_**The Visitor**_  
><em><strong>by 80sarcades<strong>_

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><p><strong><em>Welcome! The credit for the idea behind this story goes to Susan M.M. I actually had a version of this story kicking around in my head (different angle) but this one works a lot better. Enjoy, and thanks for reading! <em>**

**_Merry Christmas, and have a Happy New Year!_**

**_Disclaimer: 'White Christmas' and 'Hogan's Heroes' belong to others; I'm just enjoying them._**

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><p><em>I'm dreaming of a white Christmas<br>__Just like the ones I used to know..._

Marie Hogan eyed the empty glass of Scotch on the table next to her. For an irrational moment she considered throwing the heavy tumbler at the radio before deciding otherwise.

Instead, she turned her melancholy thoughts inward and tried very hard not to think about the upcoming holiday. Unlike most people, she disliked Christmas. Hated it with a passion.

It wasn't just the holiday that distressed her; it was the reminder of all she had lost.

_I lost Mom on Christmas. Ten years ago tomorrow._

A trembling hand reached out for the nearby liquor bottle. With effort, she splashed more of the amber nectar into her glass before taking another long sip. The warm liquid temporarily numbed the mental pain for a moment.

_Everyone loves Christmas, don't they? _she thought dejectedly_. A time to be merry and full of cheer. Well, who do I have to be cheerful with?_

_I could go to one of the parties, of course. Celebrate the season with supposed friends who will tell me things that I really don't care to hear. Or I could just host my own party, couldn't I?_

_Two problems with that, however, _her mind reasoned. _Either way, my friends will have their husbands there. George has been gone for five years now. He might have been annoying at times, but...I miss him. He made life interesting. Even fun._

_As to the second reason...well, isn't that obvious? Our boys will be there. Especially Army, and I can't bear to see one of their uniforms right now. _

_They'll remind me of Robert. Another thing that was taken from me. _

_Right now my baby is sitting in some horrible Prisoner of War camp in Germany. At least he's alive, but...I want my son here, with me._

She snorted. _Listen to me_, her inner voice went on. _I'm being selfish, aren't I? Maybe it's the alcohol talking. There are thousands of wives and mothers out there that would love to have their men home for Christmas. Or, for that matter, spend one lousy day with them. I suppose I'm no different._

_But really: is it too much to ask? Besides, who knows what those awful Germans are doing to him right now? _Adding to her discomfort was the fact she _knew _her son was sick. How, she didn't know. She could just feel it, somehow.

Marie sighed, then downed the rest of her drink. She lifted her tired body out of the comfortable chair and turned off the radio before unsteadily making her way down the hallway towards the bedroom. The cold sheets, yet another reminder of intimate loss, slid across her body while she tried to make herself comfortable. When she was ready her hand reached up and turned the bedside lamp off.

Her eyes unseeingly stared into the lengthening twilight of late afternoon while her mind relived the happier memories of times past. A tear, quickly followed by others, slid down her graceful cheeks without notice. The fitful sleep that eventually followed caused her to toss and turn in bed; worry lines formed as her features contorted in seeming pain.

Suddenly the restless movements stopped. The rigid tension of her muscles slowly fell away; Marie's face relaxed, then turned serenely peaceful.

And then, impossibly, she smiled.

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><p>Peter Newkirk carefully pushed open the wooden door to Colonel Hogan's quarters before slipping quietly inside. A desk lamp - with most of its harsh glow shielded by a piece of paper - cast long shadows on the walls of the Senior POW's rough quarters. The RAF Corporal eyed the small figure crouched next to the American officer's bunk.<p>

"How's the Guv'nor?" he whispered, concerned.

Louis LeBeau worriedly looked over at his English friend. "His fever has broken, I think," his hushed words replied. "He may be through the worst of it. I cannot tell."

Newkirk let out a long sigh. "I hope so," he said, keeping his voice low. For a moment, he stared at one of the few officers - American or British - to ever gain his respect. "He _has_ to pull through. If the Krauts can't get him, then the bloody flu shouldn't."

The French Corporal nodded, then stood up. By unspoken agreement both men moved over to the nearby desk. With luck the Colonel would sleep through the night. If not…then his men would be there for him.

They always were.

"Colonel Hogan will pull through," LeBeau said firmly. "He is a strong man." His eyes glanced toward the sleeping form. "If we had had men like him in 1940, France would never have surrendered."

Newkirk nodded solemnly in agreement before motioning his head towards the door. "Go and get some sleep, Louie," he told his friend. "I'll watch him. Anything else I need to know?"

Instead of replying, the Frenchman's gaze suddenly turned to look past Newkirk's right shoulder. Then, to the Englishman's amazement, LeBeau crossed himself. The bright light of honor that had earlier shone in LeBeau's eyes was now replaced by a terrified look of fear.

_What?..._

Slowly, Newkirk turned around. He wasn't a religious man by any means; he believed in himself and his mates. Yet at that moment he was tempted to mirror LeBeau's gesture of devotion.

A woman in her mid-50's stood at the end of the Colonel's bunk. As the men watched, her body seemed to shimmer and fade slightly from view before coming back to solid life. The blonde hair on her head, as well as the pink nightgown she wore, were so real that Newkirk was almost tempted to reach out and touch them.

At that moment the woman turned her head towards the Allied airmen. Her kind eyes, accompanied by a warm smile, somehow made the Englishman feel at ease; he knew - and he couldn't explain _why_ - that the woman meant no harm. As he watched, the stranger silently broke away before kneeling on the floor next to Hogan's bunk; her expression then changed to one of worry. Suddenly, the new arrival turned her head towards the two corporals and gave them an intent stare.

Somehow, Newkirk was able to discern the unspoken question contained in her brown eyes. Despite his instincts, he flashed a cocky grin in her direction.

"He'll be fine, ma'am," he told her, feeling slightly foolish at talking to what he would have sworn was thin air. "He's been sick, but the fever's gone down," he added, praying that LeBeau was right. Beside him, the Frenchman - now mostly recovered from his shock - nodded vigorously in agreement.

The woman continued to look at the men for a long moment before her eyes relaxed. The woman's mouth formed two silent, yet easily recognizable, words:

_Thank you. _

The specter then turned her attention back to the sleeping Colonel. A hand reached up and somehow brushed a stray hair away from Hogan's left eye before she leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. As she did so her form _shimmered_ once more before it finally faded from existence.

For a long minute the two enlisted men remained silent. There was nothing to prove that a woman had been in the room; just where had she come from? Even better: where did she go?

Newkirk looked at LeBeau's eyes and found his own gaze reflected back towards him. He had seen it, whatever _it_ was; more importantly, so had his friend. Otherwise he would have sworn he was going mad. At that moment the other man fixed his sight on the other side of the room.

"_Mon Dieu_," the Frenchman whispered, then muttered some more words in French that the Englishman couldn't make out. Suddenly he leaped forward and silently jumped onto a nearby chair before his hand plucked a small picture off of the far wall. Newkirk stared in curiosity as his friend intently examined the tiny photograph. To be honest, the image was one he often saw yet ignored; it was part of the Colonel's private life. At least until now.

"That's her," LeBeau breathed in a shocked voice before he hopped down from his perch. He turned the picture around towards his friend and brought it closer-

-and Newkirk was presented with a small shot of a middle-aged woman standing in a dress next to a building. It was her unmistakable smile that grabbed his attention; it was the very same one that had graced the face of the unknown specter.

"His mother," the Frenchman said, a strange look in his eyes as he made the connection. "That was his mother…"

And Newkirk found himself nodding in agreement. It was impossible, but…

_What's impossible in war?_

He glanced at his watch and noted that it was five minutes past 3 A.M. on Christmas morning. He glanced at the sleeping Colonel, still unaware of his mother's presence, and nodded again.

_You got the best present anyone could, Guv'nor, even if you don't know it, _he thought. _And hopefully, you'll see your mum again…_

"Merry Christmas, Colonel," he said, his warm Cockney tones softly filling the air of the room. "Merry Christmas."

_[fin/ende] _

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><p><em>AN: I know in at least one episode - and I can't remember the name of it - you can see a small picture of something/someone on the wall above Hogan's bunk. I've always assumed it was his mother. That, or a really really small pinup:-)_


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